


A Handful of Dice

by pagerunner



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Ficlets, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagerunner/pseuds/pagerunner
Summary: A collection of ficlets, short pieces, and musings about the characters of Critical Role--some dark, some sweet, others somewhere in between.





	1. In Miniature [Percy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Percy's comment during the Feywild arc about keeping some of the pixies' furniture for his dollhouse back home. I had to play with that idea. Being me, this is what happened.

The dollhouse was commissioned for his sisters.

Elaborate and elegant in construction, massive in scale, it took up a sizable corner of their playroom once completed. Opening the hinged walls revealed lovely small-scale furnishings and decorations on every floor. The de Rolo girls were awed. Percy looked at it more critically. A respectable kitchen would certainly have more cookware, for one thing. The wardrobe that didn’t open was disappointing. Piece by piece he picked at it, and when his sisters grew irritated at the scrutiny, they shooed him out of their way—and he left them to it, exasperated as usual.

But with the tools he had at hand, he also got to work.

Over the next few weeks, his sisters kept discovering new details that weren’t there at the start. The dining room chandelier certainly didn’t have tiny _real_ candles then, but it did now. A tiny pull toy that appeared in one bedroom looked just like one of Cassandra’s. The miniature portrait of their mother that had been painted a few years back was found mounted in the dollhouse’s entry hall, to their father’s initial consternation, but Johanna found it too charming to protest. And after a good deal of experimentation and two or three false starts, there appeared a music box on the table downstairs—not to scale, and that privately annoyed Percy, but it was as close as he could get—that played a tiny little tune if you turned the handle. Vesper, quietly cataloguing the alterations, finally asked Percy if he’d been responsible for them. He denied every bit of it.

Despite his claims, however, something new would turn up at every Winter’s Crest for years. Along with holiday decorations that mysteriously came and went every season, there was a tiny stained glass inset added to a window, a new tapestry trimmed from an old embroidered dress, replica fireplace tools hammered out of nails. Even after the girls were too old to play with it, or at least when they’d use their age as an excuse to disdain it, you could sometimes find Percy fiddling with some miniature piece or other—ever more esoteric as the years went, and ever more clever in construction.

It was so clever, in fact, that a certain Lady Briarwood even remarked upon it during a fateful visit to the castle.

Percy wasn’t sure why it compelled him to stand in defense of the structure, not when she’d spoken in apparent admiration, but she was so oddly calculating in her scrutiny. That _look_  as she plucked up one of the dolls and smiled at it, then put it back all out of place, its head turned at a disturbing angle…

It chilled him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Unfortunately, he grew to understand it soon enough.

The dollhouse survived their reign, for whatever it was worth. Percy found it upon his return to Whitestone, tucked away in storage; at some point Cassandra had ordered it protected, and that, at least, had stuck. And so in Percy’s scant few idle hours at home, he’s been repairing it and adding new touches—like little weapons for the glamorously dressed family, who could, he feels, have used some self-defense. A certain crest to be mounted on the wall for all to see.

And at least Cassandra’s replica toy is still there, and the music box still plays.

Even if the portrait and a few of the dolls have mysteriously gone.


	2. Rumors [Percy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After watching the Whitestone arc, it occurred to me to wonder what the residents of Whitestone might think of what they've seen. Percy during those days of corruption could easily come across as a little...worrying.

There are plenty in Whitestone who remember the Briarwoods, and even now, long after their fall, the memories return at strange and eerie times.

Certainly no one has any fear of their rulers now. The de Rolos were well regarded before their overthrow and beloved upon their return, even if a few Whitestone residents, aware of Cassandra’s long time as the Briarwoods’ ward, remained quietly watchful for a time. Still, she emerged as benevolent, clever, and generous, surrounded by advisors who were all beyond reproach. The city watched her grow into herself and her new role, and in turn they grew to love her dearly.

Her brother was and still remains a more mysterious figure.

There are tremendous tales of him now, to be sure. Everyone has heard of Vox Machina’s exploits, of Percival’s inventions and the strange weaponry that turned the tide of so many battles. His standing not only as the defender of Whitestone, but of so many lands beyond, is impressive and inspiring in equal measure. Still, Percival has always been the elusive one in the de Rolo family: more private than his siblings, more focused on his own affairs, and often difficult for others to read. He still is that in his visits to the city. He is always gladly welcomed when he comes, but when he does, some people remember other stories about him, too.

Stories about that dark and difficult battle here in town. The grim deaths of the Briarwoods’ conspirators—most, it’s said, at Percival’s hand. The fires in the city, the smoke in the air.

Some say it clings to Percival still.

It’s difficult to believe any ill of him when he’s done so much for Whitestone, and when he’s so evidently loyal to his sister and his companions. But he’s not any less enigmatic than he ever was, and his intelligence and intensity can be…unnerving. Those few who’ve had personal dealings with him often say that his thoughts are always turning, fixed on a plan or some complex calculation, and his gaze frequently goes distant, as if fixed on something beyond anyone else’s view. When he does return his focus, the regard is arresting—and nothing like his sister’s, no matter how similar their eyes might be. There’s more sympathy in her, despite her own inevitable edges. No matter what she’s endured, that still remains.

It seems unimaginable that whatever Percival went through before his return could have been so much worse than what the Briarwoods inflicted on his sister, but _something_ must have happened to hone him so sharply. And his reticent nature about it can leave questions.

Simply put, when given the room to wonder, people often do.

 _What_ is _he crafting when he goes off to work alone? What is it he and his friends are guarding beneath the castle?And was there any truth to what it’s said he did to those who wronged him? Because I know some people said…because I heard…because someone told me they saw…._

No one ever quite knew, but there were _stories._

Always, always there were stories.

Rumors of dark magic. Of strange and shadowy power. That Percival had…changed, somehow, in his years away, and that he might have been haunted by something deeper than only tragic memories and loss.

Many things are difficult to believe of him, but that idea wants to linger.

No one raises the concern far, by silent and careful agreement. It all seems like dramatic exaggeration by the light of day. Besides, if there had been…questionable…magic at play, it could just as easily have been the work of Percival’s companions, and not something that _he_ had summoned into being. It was just a sort of symmetry, really, to say that he took the Briarwoods down with the same sort of dark power that they’d unleashed. Poetic justice, in its way.

Now that they’re all free and there are new battles to fight, most of those tales probably aren’t even important anymore.

Still, those wary few who used to watch Cassandra have begun keeping an eye to her brother instead. He’s carrying a heavy burden, after all, and none of them can afford for him to falter. And it’s clear that he’s had to walk through dark places for the sake of this fight—for _their_ sake, at the end—but while he seems to have emerged from the worst of it, sometimes they can see that shadow on him still. His manner, his mysteries, his inscrutable intentions…

It’s worth watching after him, just in case.

Because it’s not so dissimilar to those who used to rule them, after all.


	3. Five Sentences [Vox Machina]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These five-sentence* ficlets were written in reply to various prompts on Tumblr. In each case I was given a character or pairing and a single word. I've made a few edits since but have quoted the prompts exactly as given, since one of them in particular deserves being preserved for posterity.
> 
> *All right, one of them is five and a bit. So sue me.

**vaxleth, hobby**

Vax really, Keyleth found herself thinking, needed to get a hobby.

He’d drifted away from idle activities and pranks in recent days, focused so much on training and their upcoming battles that he was also beginning to brood. It was clear that he needed something to tug him out of his inward spirals and help him focus on something brighter. It was hard to think of what to _suggest_ at such a time, but one way or another, she certainly tried.

What she didn’t anticipate after all her well-meaning fumbles was that his new focus might simply turn out to be _her_ …but all things considered, kissing was turning out to be a perfectly nice hobby, and one she’d be more than happy to share.

—

**platonic percy/keyleth: record**

Some of Vox Machina’s missions were inevitably more exciting than others—if, Keyleth thought (while wryly considering Vax), your definition of “exciting” tended toward the “stabby” side of the spectrum. Here in Vasselheim’s Hall of Records, there were fewer of those sorts of targets to confront. But she found herself oddly fascinated by all the old texts, and so, as it happened, did Percy. Soon enough they found themselves bent over a table together, that morning’s disagreements about strategy forgotten, deciphering a hundred-year-old scroll and plunging deep into discussion about the implications. And finding the answer they needed—that little _eureka_ moment, the smile on his face as she impulsively hugged him and he returned it without reservation—was as satisfying as anything else they’d fought and won together, in its own, much more companionable sort of way.

—

**perc'ahlia: find me**

He has promises to keep.

He’s made himself so many when it comes to Vex—promises of caution and of care, of never putting her in harm’s way again—but this one is different, and his nerves are prickling with it. With every step through Scanlan’s improbable mansion, he’s thinking of her request, the look in her eyes, the warm entreaty in her voice.

_After dark, when the others are asleep…come find me._

He’d said little then—she’d barely given him time before stepping away—but evidently he’s made his answer clear enough in his actions, because when she hears his soft knock and opens her door, she greets him with a smile full of promises of her own.

—

**percy + 'amnesty'**

Percy didn’t entirely know what his companions would think of his choices after the Whitestone battle, but it was Keyleth who told him, rather to his surprise, that she was proud of him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be the type for amnesty,” she said, sitting beside him as they watched the distant crowds. “But deciding not to execute all the conspirators…I think that was the right call.”

“Despite apparently popular belief,” he answered, “I do _occasionally_ show mercy.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder, after which all he could really do was put an arm around her and smile.

—

**percy, name(s)**

Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III learned early in life to rattle off his name as swiftly as possible. First it was simply a matter of fluency and poise, but later it became an effort to lessen the weight of it, all the ironic obligations that the long chain of namesakes placed on a secondary son.

After the loss of his family, however, that weight became far heavier and stranger, and his name—left unspoken for the sake of whatever safety he could find—only came back to him in whispers and uncomfortable dreams.

It took time in the aftermath to truly make his plans, and to decide what identity he could claim for himself on the road to avenging his family. But after an odd band of adventurers freed him from an unfortunate capture and offered what seemed like a promising partnership indeed, somehow trust came easily, and he fell into a certain kind of honesty when they asked for his name.

 _Please_ , he told them, feeling lighter about it than he had in years. _Call me Percy._

—

**percival von bukowski freddie mercury de rolo the third, reaction**

In the moment that heralds the kill, there’s a flash from the gun and the sting of recoil, and a sharp, acrid scent in Percy’s nose. There’s a frisson through his nerves, too, as he becomes certain he’s aimed true, and it only builds as the bullet flies, because he knows, he knows, he _knows_.

But the deepest, darkest reaction is only barely his own, and it floods through him as flesh tears and a scream gurgles to a stop, and a haze of blood spreads out behind the rising shadow.

It’s a terrible sort of satisfaction, so pleasurable it unnerves him, and it’s rising quickly into a newly insistent hunger, because this kill is only one name off the list—and the specter with its claws in him wants more.

Percy’s instinctive recoil this time isn’t enough to break the hold, and the force of it starts cracking something in him beyond even his skills to repair.

—

**percy/vax; tranquility**

Vax is furious at Percy for a long, long time, but eventually, inevitably, it fades.

Maybe it’s Percy’s tendency to pull off extraordinary feats in battle just when they need it most; maybe it’s the uncomfortable realization that Vax has done his own share of impulsive, dangerous things that put others at risk, so he can’t entirely point fingers. Maybe it’s the kindness Percy keeps showing his sister, not only out of a sense of apology but also genuine care. Either way, Vax feels the animosity slipping little by little, almost despite himself.

And a certain eerily tranquil voice in his head seems to approve of that, as if She recognizes something in Percy, too—birds of a feather as much as brothers in arms, and not someone Vax can afford to lose.

—

**unprompted: perc’ahlia bonus round**

Of all the things Percy can think of to say in this moment—standing as he is with quickened breath and racing heart a bare inch away from Vex’ahlia—“your brother’s going to kill me” might not, upon reflection, be the most eloquent. But it’s received with a laugh and a soft, slow touch, leaving no doubt as to Vex’s opinion on the matter.

“Well, this is hardly up to Vax, now is it, darling?” she asks, even as she sidles tantalizingly closer.

“No, it’s not…although come to think of it, the defender of yours I should be most worried about is the bear.”

Vex laughs again and tugs him into closing the distance, and while she doesn’t quite reassure him that he has nothing to fear, he’s more than inspired enough by the kiss to give her his all, consequences be damned.


	4. Under Shadow [Vox Machina]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a discussion about what might happen if the Critical Role cast ever played evil versions of their characters.
> 
> I promptly creeped myself out.

Grog was always a dangerous, brutal force, but with his better influences gone, his darker urges unchecked, he’s enough to inspire even greater terror than the leader he dethroned and destroyed.

Vex’s greed is a vicious thing, and she knows how to aim to hurt, whether it’s with words or poisoned arrows, or one cruel command to the creature at her side: eyes soulless, teeth bared, claws sharp.

Broken faith can leave a terrible void, and Pike can’t heal the cracks in her it’s made—nor stop the betrayed and furious need that clutches out at anything, and has pulled in far more shadow than light.

Vax has spent too much time in shadow himself, and after seeing the horrors it holds, becoming so familiar that it cuts in and creeps under his skin, it’s all too easy to fade into that darkness for good.

The air’s gone stale in Keyleth’s mouth; plants wither at her touch. Bitter, resentful, and possessed of too much power, she acts out of pure selfishness now, and her soul, once full of life, simply burns.

Scanlan’s music has gone eerily discordant, his voice too sweet, his eyes too cruel. He’s learned exactly how to twist people to his will, and no one can resist his terribly capricious whims.

And Percy would be dangerous enough with his intelligence so maliciously bent, his arrogance blinding, his arsenal so advanced and his power ever growing…

But Percy isn’t Percy anymore.


	5. Left Behind [Cassandra]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I keep writing creepy-sad Whitestone vignettes, apparently, and I felt desperately sorry for Cassandra after episode 73. (And I might have spent more time than was reasonable admiring Laura Bailey in that Delilah Briarwood costume. Bad Page, no cookie.)

Not everything of the Briarwoods’ was discarded from Whitestone after their fall.

Most things were, of course. A number of artifacts were consigned to fire, and a few of them, their enchantments too powerful and unpredictable, were destroyed in the acid. More innocuous possessions, like certain items of furniture, were gathered up to be more simply sent away, although after a guard found something nasty in a hidden compartment—Cassandra never found out exactly what it was, other than a two-word description: “it bites”—those were carefully disassembled and burned as well. It was hard to be too careful. The Briarwoods’ influence went deep, and their presence had left scars.

Cassandra was especially careful of their bedroom in the castle and what remained within, and she insisted on being the first person to survey it after the final battle.

She knew some of what her captors had done to the room, after all—and in it, to her intense discomfort—and she had to be certain about the traps. Delilah had lazily explained those one night while Cassandra had attended to her at the lady’s command. “Anyone who tries to creep in through these windows,” she’d said, gesturing with one long finger, “will be beheaded by a guillotine of glass. There are enchantments in the halls outside, attuned to errant footsteps. Also, the doorknobs are spelled to burn at a touch if we don’t wish to be disturbed. It’s lucky you haven’t discovered that on your own, my sweet.”

Her smile was dangerously edged. Cassandra, unable to look away from it, nodded quickly, for there seemed little else that she could do.

“But not to worry, my darling. It’s only that we mean to keep our home _safe.”_ Delilah reached up to gently capture Cassandra’s chin, turning her head to one side and the other as if studying something about her. “We protect everything that’s ours.”

Those words echoed again in Cassandra’s head as she turned in place on the burgundy carpet, studying the room in her own way. It was empty at last of _them_ , and their spells had apparently died just as they had, but the place was still so haunted it was hard to breathe.

The heavy curtains on the windows, Sylas’ most obvious addition, still hung slack to block out the light. The bed had once belonged to her own parents, but all Cassandra could picture there now was _them_ , and she shuddered as she moved away from it. The desk…well, she’d have to deal with the desk. The same went for Delilah’s vanity. A few interesting secrets still hid there, too.

But what Cassandra was facing now was the wardrobe.

She stepped forward, wishing fleetingly that someone was by her side, before she reached forward and drew open both doors.

Sylas’ clothing hung to the left side, Delilah’s to the right. Silks and velvet whispered beneath Cassandra’s fingers as she ran them across the entire array. All of the collection was familiar to her, but a few items stood out. Here was the suit Sylas wore when he first addressed the town, announcing the sad deaths of the de Rolos and his intent to carry on in their stead. Here was the gown Delilah wore to her birthday ball the following, fateful year, declaring an end to the mourning and presenting herself like a queen. And there—just there, beneath Cassandra’s fingertips—was the one tiny bloodstain that had spattered onto the dress at the reception afterward, at the moment Sylas drew one very special enemy from the crowd and slaughtered him in tribute…

Cassandra could still hear Delilah’s triumphant laugh.

Her fingers clutched around the dress, her hand shaking. Then very, very carefully, she made herself let go. She stood there frozen for a long while before she pulled the dress from its hanger instead. As she held it out before her, Delilah’s voice rang out again in memory.

_Help me to dress, darling. I need to look my best tonight. So many things to get just right…_

She had, and the dress had been perfect. Despite everything, despite even that bloodstain on the bodice, it was beautiful still.

Cassandra slowly turned with it toward the mirror.

For a moment, her own reflection shocked her. She looked so thin after all of this, so pale. Her hair, once a rich chestnut throughout, was streaked with gray. Fear had worn her down so, and it lingered in her expression even now, as if she were waiting for Sylas to step inside and ask—in his seductive, ever-dangerous way—why she was meddling with his wife’s possessions. She felt strangely vulnerable now without Delilah to speak up, for it was always she who’d defend her in those moments—if it could be called defense when it was equal parts kindness and possessiveness, laced with such endearments that Cassandra could only blush. _My love,_ she’d say, gently touching Cassandra’s shoulder, moving her closer. _How could such admiration trouble me? Look at us. Oh, my darling girl. You could almost be mine…_

Cassandra held up the dress against herself, her movements slow, her breath faltering. She could almost see Delilah in the mirror as she did.

Cassandra didn’t know how to name what she was feeling. She had always hated the woman, every bit as much as she’d feared her. But some other emotion seeped in around the edges sometimes, something uncomfortable and unpleasant. It stilled her where she stood, made her study the dress again, comparing strange little details. It made her imagine herself in crushed velvet and black lace, holding herself with cold pride as she swept through the halls. And it made her remember—

— _blood on the blade in her hands, Delilah falling, her eyes going dim as her magic and her life faded away like so much smoke…_

Cassandra’s fingertips went to the bloodstain again, pressing hard against her own bones beneath. It wasn’t so far from where Cassandra had stabbed Delilah at the end. And all she could hear over the rush of her terrified heart was that sweet, poisoned voice saying, _Someday, my Cassandra, you’ll be just like me._

She closed her eyes and swayed where she stood. No matter how her thoughts roiled, no matter _what_ she’d done, she couldn’t make herself let go.

If anyone noticed afterward that the dress was absent from the list of possessions to be destroyed, no one ever dared to say a word.


	6. By Blood [Percy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A handful of drabbles (actual, literal, 100-word drabbles, thank you very much) inspired by a vampire!Percy AU idea that had been floating around Tumblr. I know I keep threatening to come back to things and then it's a long damn wait, but someday, something more may have to come of this...

In the days following the overthrow of the de Rolos, Ripley finds such potential in Percival—his intelligence, his inventiveness, a ruthless streak that could be bent to useful cruelty—that after testing him in every way she can devise, she recommends him and him alone to Sylas.

Perhaps it seems a paltry offering, this pale and bloodied boy. But Lord Briarwood considers her suggestion as Ripley lays out her findings. Percival, watching their exchange in increasing horror, quickly deduces what she intends.

It’s his shout of protest that makes Sylas smile, showing all his teeth.

Clearly she’s chosen well.

—

After all the horrors he’s experienced at the Briarwoods’ hands, and those that were suggested by his family’s distant screams, Percy’s the least prepared for this.

 _No_ , he tries to say, while Sylas hauls him up with unnatural strength, stopping his struggles. The man’s purring voice— _yes, young pup; you will do nicely_ —shoots through him, as tantalizing as it is terrifying. His whole body trembles. He’s losing track of why.

"No," he whispers again, but Sylas is so very close now. Ripley, behind him, answers, “Yes.”

She watches while it happens: her last violation before the one that outdoes it all.

—

Pain.

The bony clench of hands, the pierce of teeth, the revulsion at this proof that Sylas is no man at all but something far worse.

_Pain._

He wants to scream, to plead to a god he barely believes in, but a sweet, strange lassitude steals his voice. His heart’s still racing, his blood too quick to spill.

_More than pain._

The lips at his throat, too intimate, finally withdraw. There’s a whisper through the darkness, a voice cold in his ear:

_Now you are a Briarwood._

Blood drips into his mouth like a deadly benediction, and Percy’s fate is sealed.


	7. Bath-Based Shenanigans, Take Two [Perc'ahlia]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a Tumblr prompt about the events of episode 95, and a certain couple vacationing together for the first time after their secret wedding. Said vacation, of course, got a little bit eventful...

It takes both of them some time to calm down after the runaway prank war, especially Percy, who’s not quite as ready to forgive Tary and forget as Vex is. But there’s also not much point in dwelling on unpleasantries, especially once they repair to their new room and Vex declares, “After all that…”

She pushes open a door inside their suite to reveal a small bathroom, one that’s mostly filled with a respectably sized tub. Vex looks over her shoulder at Percy.

“I think we both ought to freshen ourselves up, don’t you?” she finishes.

Percy pauses for a second, looking down at himself. He’d taken care not to step in anything…well, untoward…that the dogs had left behind, but after all the running about trying to solve the issue, and whatever might have gotten kicked up along the way, and who knows what else, there’s really only one reasonable reply. “You present a valid point.”

Vex sneaks up while he tugs with distaste at his rumpled clothing. “Darling, that’s not the only one I was making.”

“Hmm?”

He looks up again to discover that Vex, standing very close now, is wearing a distinct smirk. Suddenly the urge to see her wearing nothing _but_ is hard to resist. “We could share the bath,” she says archly. “Again.”

“Ah. That’s…yes, that’s a better point.”

“I thought so. I mean, this _is_ supposed to be our getaway together. Seems appropriate.”

He actually blushes at that, at the implications they’ve been trying not to make in front of the others. Here, though, out of earshot… “That it most definitely is.”

She smiles, more softly this time. “Is that also why you asked for our replacement room to be a bit more private?”

“Well, for one thing, I wanted to be well away from the nonsense that just happened…but yes, in fact, it was.”

Vex, going up on tiptoes, almost brushes his lips with hers when she says, “Such a smart man I’ve married.”

Percy chuckles, feeling Vex’s fingers slide in alongside his to unfasten a button. “I did lock the door,” he tells her, trying to continue to be helpful. “So hopefully we won’t get any interruptions this time.”

“Oh, everyone has been well and thoroughly informed that we are _not_ to be disturbed again tonight.”

“Have they now.”

“Oh, yes,” she says lightly, as she pushes his shirt off his shoulders. It lands in a puddle behind him, while her fingertips slide over and around his bare shoulders to begin drawing him closer. “I think we deserve the peace and quiet.”

“Peace, maybe.” Newly inspired, he leans in and murmurs in one ear, “I’m a little less interested in being quiet.”

Vex’s eyes brighten, and she gives him a very _we’ll see about that_ sort of smirk as she tugs him into the room.

And he does _try_ during the activities that follow not to add water damage to the list of things on their bill, but if they both get a little overenthusiastic, well…

It _is_ a honeymoon _,_ after all.


	8. A Conference With the Queen [Cassandra]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt about the reactions in Whitestone to the new royal couple--much nicer than the last pair, as the prompt reminded me, but still technically undead, in a manner of speaking. And that thought led me to Cassandra. Someday I will write her a happy story, poor thing, but at least the ending of this is _somewhat_ positive! ...creepy conversations with the goddess of death notwithstanding.

For all that Vox Machina had done to save Whitestone, sometimes Cassandra worried about what shadows they were bringing back to it.

She knew, because it was patently obvious regardless of how much her brother neglected to tell her, that Percy had died at least once. For his friends to have returned him to Whitestone as a corpse—she shuddered still to think of it—and resurrect him _here,_ in this town once ruled by necromancy, was still an unsettling thing. Of course, the town held Pike in high esteem, and her magic beyond reproach. There seemed to be such a thing as a clean return to life. So there was that much to hold to, at least.

Still, the town had a long memory, and a complex, wary one where death was concerned. Cassandra’s experience with the matter was worse than most. And for Percy to not only return from the dead, but partner himself (although he still wouldn’t admit to that in any sensible fashion, either) with Vex’ahlia, who had brushed with death herself, and was twinned with one who _served_ it…

That was something else again, and Cassandra had no idea what to make of it.

So she’d asked a few things, discreetly, trying to get a better grasp on exactly what Vax’ildan represented. She’d read about the Raven Queen, trying to understand Her goals and ease her own mind. And—just the once, one solitary time—she went to the graveyard to visit the temple.

That was strange on so many levels she could barely count them all.

“The Professor’s been…removed,” Zahra had told her some time before the visit, sounding disconcertingly flippant about disinterring one of Cassandra’s tormentors. Then again, Zahra didn’t really know that story. Cassandra was, upon occasion, just as reticent as her brother. “His family’s remains are far off now. The site’s unmarked but properly sealed, as requested. I can tell you where it is…”

“No. That is—tell the guard, I suppose. But…no, I don’t wish to know.”

Zahra had eyed her then, her scrutiny unnerving. Cassandra had had her share of practice at hiding secrets, though, and at least Zahra didn’t pry.

In the end, the result of her compatriot’s work—and of Percy and Vax’s own contributions—was this reappropriated crypt. All its old symbology was removed, all its new icons distinctly different. Cassandra eyed the raven’s silhouette above the door before she put her hand to the latch. _I should have told my bodyguard,_ she thought. _They keep warning me about the graveyard. I shouldn’t be here alone…_

She opened the door regardless and stepped in.

Despite all expectations, it felt oddly familiar. All shrines served the same basic function, she supposed; certain elements were bound to recur. But the candles, several of them softly burning, led her to something she’d read about but still swallowed hard to see. A basin filled with dark, thick liquid sat at the center of the altar.

Cassandra breathed in the tang of blood and felt her throat close up, and her whole body tense with the urge to flee. Or fight. Or dash that basin straight against the wall.

She did none of those things. Instead, she shoved thoughts of knives and fangs and sacrifices out of her head, clenched her fists at her sides, and walked closer.

 _The Raven Queen abhors necromancy,_ she reminded herself, slowly and methodically. The books had said as much, and so had Vex, the one time Cassandra had dared to ask. _She stands against everything the Briarwoods were for. Her champion helped fight them for you. This altar is to respect Her place in the natural order of things, that’s all._

Inevitably, a tiny, doubtful whisper followed: _But did my brother’s friends go too far in bringing Percy back to me? Does She forgive such things, too?_

She bit her lip so hard at that thought that she drew a drop of blood, and she reached up, startled, to wipe it free. For a moment afterward, all she could do was stare at the crimson smudge on her fingertip.

Then she held her breath, and acted on instinct. Still holding the question in her mind, she lowered her trembling hand and touched that finger to the pool.

It was quiet. It was cold. Cassandra shivered where she stood, slowly beginning to feel woozy, as if she’d just slid underwater. She wondered what in the world she thought she was doing. Then she heard something, or thought she did, echoing softly from all directions.

 _Paths may be changed, and destinies deferred,_ it said. The whisper was like a woman’s voice, heard from a long, difficult distance. _You know this as well as anyone._

Cassandra’s eyes widened. She could see her face in the pool suddenly, its shape wavering as her trembling finger disturbed the liquid. Behind her, though…behind her in the reflection was something else.

_He was spared an ill fate I could not control, and it was done by those who meant to help, not harm. Do not fear my judgment of that. Beware only the choices not made under such light._

The voice grew clearer, and eerily focused.

_The sort that you have witnessed._

That last words sounded so close to Cassandra’s ear that she whirled around, jarring the basin where it sat and nearly knocking all the breath from her own lungs. But the room was empty. All Cassandra saw was stone and the flicker of candelight, and the lingering impression of a space where someone should be.

Cassandra shut her eyes against it. In the darkness behind her eyelids, the idea—and the identity—of the speaker only became more clear.

 _You know what obscenities were wrought here,_ said the Raven Queen. _You watched. You remember. Share those secrets. Tell my champion where the shadows linger, and what else must be banished. Such is his task. Such is his duty in my stead._

There was a faint stirring of air in the room, a sweep of motion. Cassandra tensed again, only to feel something like a touch—the lightest brush of fingers against her cheek.

 _But not all burdens must be yours, child,_ She said. _Live, before you come to me._

Cassandra gasped, and all at once her eyes flew open. For a split second she saw a face, or imagined one, pale and still but with dark, sad eyes. Then it vanished. All she saw now was that the room was empty, all its candles extinguished. But the doors to the crypt stood open, letting faint moonlight spill in across the stone.

Cassandra stood exactly where she was for a long, long time. She watched wisps of smoke rise and fade from guttering wicks. Slowly, she moved again and stepped outside.

The air was crisp and cold, but the chill didn’t feel unkind anymore.

Cassandra breathed deeply, listening to the echoing caw of a bird in flight. Then she closed the doors of the temple and returned to the castle, where for the first night in weeks, to her surprise, she slept without nightmares at all.


	9. Shadows in the Mirror [Ripley]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time ago I began writing a story in response to someone's comment that between Ripley, Percy, and Vex, we basically had the makings of Snow White: the wicked woman who wanted her rival dead and the charming suitor who kissed said rival back to life. I meant to write vignettes for all three of them, but never got all the way through, and at this point it's unlikely to get finished. Still, I like Ripley's section, and I was reminded this week that A: it exists and B: I never archived it anywhere. So before I forget again: voila.

She’s never cared about being the fairest.

There are ways in which Anna Ripley wants to reign, but it’s a cerebral matter for her, not one of vanity. She’ll take any route she can to knowledge and power, twist any creation and clever mind to her purposes. If that means finding the best and brightest competitor, learning all she can from them, then snuffing them out like a candle flame…

Well, she’s never cared about playing fair, either.

Tonight, she’s sent her lackeys to their duties and ensconced herself in solitude, except for the unwitting company of those beyond her scrying stone. It’s a beautiful little thing, polished to a mirror shine, and it’s whispering to her already, suggesting hints of conversation. A swift caress of her fingertips calls forth individual voices. All of them are familiar, but one of them is intimately so. Anna lifts the stone higher before her, listening to his words the most carefully of all.

Percival de Rolo. Her very favorite, and most hated, subject. Brilliant, reckless when pressed to his limits, the inspiration for so many terrible, wonderful works...and the cause of so much trouble.

She’s so focused on him that she barely hears the other whisper in her head, belonging to the dark smoke curled around what’s left of her soul.

 _He destroyed your plans,_ it reminds her. _He deserves to be repaid in kind. He deserves to be repaid with no kindness at all._

Something deep within her thrums with vicious, hungry affirmation, but still she leans in, trying to focus.

The scrying stone, linked to the gun Percy took from her— _and that’ll teach you to steal from_ me, she thinks—provides another exchange of conversation. Percy and his ragtag band seem to be discussing the missing cloak. A sharp-edged grin spreads across her face, and she tugs the vestige in question tighter around her shoulders. It’s strangely delightful to hear them so confused, so conflicted, struggling to make their way through the dark.

“How long will it take you to figure it out, I wonder?” she murmurs aloud. She can hear a note of dread creeping into Percy’s tone, as if he suspects the truth but won’t admit it just yet. She did leave plenty of signs behind for him. She _wants_ him to know. Wants to pierce into his thoughts again, poison him from within.

_Yes. You will lure him to his end, and we will take everything he owes us. Everything he is._

Anna smiles even wider. Perhaps it’s because of that insidious inner voice. Perhaps it’s because she’s also heard the first appalled mention of her own name. Curiously, though, it’s not from Percy’s tongue. She listens on, fascinated. It’s that Keyleth child speaking, stepping into Percy’s silence.

“So even your little druid friend will say what you cannot,” she muses, tilting the stone as if she could see his reflection, not hers, if she gets it to just the right angle. “You still fear me, don’t you? How much _did_ I damage you?”

 _Not enough. Never enough. You will finish your work this time. And I will_ undo _him._

She doesn’t stop to think of what the demon means by that, or how much she might be part of its own unstated plans. She’s too busy reveling in Percy’s fraying voice when he finally speaks again. She pulls the scrying stone even closer, almost within kissing distance.

“This time, I’ll do everything right,” she murmurs in reply. In part, the promise is to Percy. In part, it’s to the thing that haunts her. “You know I’ve learned from what you’ve done. I will destroy you with it. And I’ll leave you buried and broken beneath the glass, Percival. All you have to do…”

Her fingers drop to the gun on her belt. She can’t see it, holstered as it is, but the names on the barrels briefly flicker, his most brightly of all.

“…is take the bait.”

Somewhere in her head there’s the shadow of a laugh. It isn’t long before Anna echoes it, cold as the ice and snow.


End file.
